Sorry, Wrong Caste
by Random Ass Shit
Summary: RatchetXIronhide Indian caste system, but maybe Greece? Ironhide as warrior caste, Ratchet as a peasant doctor. Brought to work for higher class. R was born a hermaphrodite. Secret relations, mpreg, escape the country?


**Separated by Law**

**Hey, I'm back again. School's started, and oddly enough, that's where I get my inspiration. So this one popped in when I was in AP World History, and we're doing Greece and India, my favorite! And so I come up with this crazy story… Ratchet, Ironhide, hermaphrodite, mpreg, possible escape of a country that I clearly can't decide on? So yay, hope ya enjoy, and feel free to suggest if you think they belong in India, or in Greece. Or some other place you can think of…**

**IKIMASHO!**

He was walking, simply strolling down the crowded street. A strange sight to see in the ghetto of the city. A man in armor was usually an unwanted presence, but the man was different. This man was not an enforcer, but a lone soldier, with dual swords strapped at his sides, gently bouncing together with every step. Standing a head taller than all of the merchants and poorer people around him, the phrase 'tall, dark, and handsome' would fit him perfectly. Dark brown cut short, it would have been curly if he had grown it a bit more. Golden tanned skin glowed, with faint scars on his face, arms, and legs. His armor was made from the strongest cow hide, and celestial bronze, hammered and crafted by the finest blacksmiths. Of course, only the Warrior castes could afford this kind of material. All in all, he was the epitome of a soldier, from the top of his helmeted head to the tips of his sandaled feet. Incidentally, he was named Ironhide, because of his armor and the way he fought. He may have scars, but they were sparse, after 10 years of serving as a warrior.

But his face was another matter. A lone scar stretched over a still functioning right eye, with smaller scars stretching from that one. An immature beard was growing out, merely a stubble of a beard. But the strange thing was the look in his eyes. They were bright blue, not commonly seen, and they had such a weary look in them. A man, a soldier like him, shouldn't have such a tired look to him. He had seen much in his small years of life.

_It was in the middle of the night. But he did not sleep. He had crawled out of his little bed, to look out the window to watch his father, a General in the King's army take on the Northern Invaders. He watched as his father charged the incoming hoard, sword held high and battle cry ringing in the air. He watched as his father took the sword and gutted an enemy, the pitiful leather armor doing nothing for the man. He smiled as his father continued to fight through. But that smile soon fell._

He watched as his father's head was cut clean off by an enemy sword. He was only 5 years old.

After 10 years, it still haunted him. His mother had died from grief after that, and his friend, whose father was a priest, took him in. At 15, Ironhide joined the military, with a vague hope of avenging his father.

Now, at 25 years of age, here he was, wandering down a street.

He ambled on, blankly glancing at the stands along the street, watching as people came and went, women buying and haggling,men arguing about trivial things and little old ladies smiling and gossiping about the people coming and going. He happened to catch one of them pointing at him, whispering, "Oh look, such a handsome young man." He smiled at them, tilting his head towards them in respect. The old ladies giggled, and waved him on his way. He continued walking until he found an open courtyard amid the crowds of the market. It was occupied by a group of women and children, singing and dancing in a circle. They were singing a harvest song, the women devoid of anything but a beautifully embroided skirt, the children practically wearing nothing at all. They spun around, holding hands and dancing in a great circle.

Ironhide let loose a genuine smile, as he watched the women dance. They were beautiful, young and vibrant, their faces exuberant, until one caught his eye. She was facing away from him, as the circle passed by. This woman had perfect straight brown hair, straight hair being an oddity in this part of the country. The bangs were tied back, at the rest trailed past her shoulders. Her back was strong; she was probably accustomed to hard labor. Her hips were big, but they were slightly more angular then they should be. The skirt she was wearing was bright white, with red trim interwoven and as a hem. The pattern they made were little crosses, made by the steadiest hands of a tailor.

As the circle continued around, Ironhide waited with baited breath to see the face of this mystery woman, only to get a frightful shock. It was a man! A strong jaw, sharp blue eyes, a small goatee growing on his chin. He was wiry, thin but visibly strong. His chest was well developed, a bit bigger than you would normally see on men. Ironhide was slightly aghast by this sudden realization, but found that this man was by far the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Long, beautiful hair, deep but clearly intellectual eyes, his mouth curved into a happy smile.

Suddenly, one of the dancers landed strange after an enthusiastic leap, and fell to the ground, clutching her ankle. The man stopped dancing, and rushed to aid the woman. From where Ironhide was standing, he could see the man visibly comforting the woman, and he quickly checked her ankle. He found that it was fine, and he helped her get to her feet. The woman appeared unfazed, and so the dance resumed, albeit slower and a bit more careful. Ironhide watched, when the old ladies from before came ambling down the street to watch as well. They remembered doing this when they were young, and started clapping and singing too. Ironhide knelt down to one of the old ladies height.

"Ma'am. Do you know that man's name?" he asked. "Why is he dressed as a woman?" he questioned, with a curious lit in his voice, pointing a finger in the man's direction.

The old lady smiled, keeping her clapping steady. "His name is Ratchet, a doctor that takes care of us poor folk. Why he is dressed like a woman? No one really knows. The rumor is that he's half man, half woman. His father was a doctor before him, but he was a bad man. He wanted fame, and power, but failed miserably. He beat his wife, for not being able to produce him an ideal child, a son specifically. He wanted a son to show off, to carry on his supposed legacy. He had killed the daughters that his wife had bore for him. Now he has a son. But a son that is not complete."

Ironhide was a little spooked. But the old lady smiled. "Don't worry, it's only a rumor." She and the other ladies left to join the circle, singing and clapping. The soldier shook his head in disbelief. Crazy old woman. He turned to leave, when the man, Ratchet, happened to glance at him. They held the stare. Ratchet had an intense look in his eyes. Ironhide mirrored that look. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. Ratchet went back to dancing, with a slightly wary look on his face. Ironhide turned back towards the road, heading back to the temple, in hopes of finding his friend Optimus. As Ironhide retreated back to the road, he missed the confused face of the beautiful man wearing the white skirt…

**Ah, done… Favorite, review, but go easy on the criticisms. My ego is small as it is… and suggest where this damn story will take place, India, Greece, or should I just make a human Cybertron where they have Greek looks and a caste system…**


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